


Americana

by Faerie_Speak



Category: X-Force (Comics), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-04-08
Updated: 2015-06-04
Packaged: 2018-03-21 23:06:03
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3706979
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Faerie_Speak/pseuds/Faerie_Speak
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chapter One: X-Force era Rictor and Shatterstar stay up, pretending they're not holding hands while discussing 1950s sitcoms.<br/>Chapter Two: Rahne convinced Shatterstar to apologize to the people in Vegas that he beat up, and regrets doing so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Part one of a series, possible sex in later chapters.

No one knew when Shatterstar slept. Maybe Rictor did, but they were all roughly between the ages of fifteen and eighteen, and bedtimes had been long abolished by that point. Once you could level a city, Rictor thought to himself dryly (and with an under current of nauseated horror), the idea of a bedtime or even a curfew was pretty fucking stupid.

Interestingly enough, Rictor and Tabitha were fairly certain as long as they were alive, breathing, and able to take Sam’s order’s in battle, Cable probably wouldn’t have cared if they lived off of candy bars and orgies, if the team dynamics didn’t get screwed up in the process. At the very least, that vision made more sense that the intrusive thought of them all sitting down to a “family dinner”, compliments of the show currently flickering in and out of commercial break. Complete with Domino in a 1950′s apron and Cable carving a meatloaf while Terry passed around glasses of milk.

That actually made Rictor grimace; it was akin to being fed a tablespoon full of sweet’n’low.

“Why did you make that face?”

The accented, thrumming voice shook Rictor from his reverie of truly bizarre thoughts he could now safely blame on the show that was on television. It was some bland, black and white rerun where women stayed at home baking pies, the children were teeth numbingly wholesome, and men were greeted with a cocktail. Why the hell Shatterstar wanted to watch it so badly was beyond Ric; he was normally satisfied with whatever was on MTV, or goofy sitcoms from this century.

“Don’t worry about it, amigo. How’re you liking your dose of Americana?”

The taller teen leaned back on his elbows, squinting at the television as though he were trying to study for an exam. “In a way, it reminds me of Mojoworld. The sets, the fakeness. Except…“

“Except what?”

“Except it is boring.”

Rictor tried not to laugh, and succeeded into just snorting. “Corn-fed, white-bred characters don’t do it for you, huh?”

“Indeed not. But I believe June handed her husband a martini, not an ear of corn.”

There was no stopping the laugh that time. For whatever reason, Shatterstar tolerated laughter from Ric better than he did with anyone else. And the dude could glare. It could have been another mutant power for all anyone there knew, but Shatty hated to be laughed at and made that much abundantly clear. Not that Rictor could really blame him, what with all that ‘gladiator honor’ and stuff he spouted. Being taken for anything less than the serious warrior he was probably hurt his pride. Being an alien in a foreign world didn’t help. 

“Yeah, you’re right, my mistake.” Rictor snickered and, as if in answer to Shatterstar’s puzzled face, handed the other a Twizzler. Instantly, ‘Star’s face beamed, and he accepted the piece of junk food willingly. One o’clock in the morning was the perfect time for candy. 

“How was this considered entertaining?” Shatterstar mused, chewing the strawberry confection. “It seems overly simple.”

Rictor considered how best to explain this while chewing his own snack. “So, remember how when you were learning to read, and we started with really stupid, simple stuff?”

“I do. Jane and Dick running after Spot.”

“Okay, so like, it’s like that. Starting simple and really boring stuff. This show was made after World War Two, and after two world wars, people were still really shaken up. They wanted to believe that they were living in better times, safe and sound from all that crap. S’kinda like that Dick and Jane book, starting off real slow and easy until you can handle more complicated stuff.” Rictor shrugged again, “At least, that’s what I think anyway.”

“Oh.” Shatterstar sat back against the couch. “Were they living in a better place?”

Rictor was quiet for a second, swallowing the last dregs of the Twizzler and getting another one, passing an extra to Shatterstar. “No. No, they weren’t. They just wanted to pretend they were.” 

The theme song started up again and the two of them were content to sit still before changing the channel. And when Rictor felt Shatterstar’s fingers ghosting over his own, he didn’t say anything about it, or move his hand away.

“You’re very smart, Julio.” 

“Psh, whatever, dude.” Rictor nudged Shatterstar’s shoulder with his own, rolling his eyes and pretending that Shatterstar wasn’t holding his hand and telling him how smart he was. Pretending he didn't notice how warm and calloused 'Star's palm felt, or how good it felt to have someone tell him 'you're smart'. It could be just like the insipid, watery show they'd wasted twenty minutes of their lives on. He'd imagine he didn't want to feel Shatterstar's mouth on his, and that way, he could pretend he liked girls. A better world, even if it wasn't.


	2. Making Amends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Rahne asks Shatterstar to apologize to the people he fought at the bar in Vegas, as featured in X-Factor "Strip Search".

Rahne was  _adamant_ that Shatterstar apologize. 

He couldn't fathom why; it happened months ago, and the people he thoroughly trounced had gone looking for a fight. He had simply delivered on what they were seeking. 

“--I did not start that fight, but I ended it entirely,” Shatterstar said, arms folding over his broad chest, a delightful smile on his face that would have charmed just about anyone else with a pulse. 

Except Rahne. 

Most of the arguments for this was simple; X-Factor was a business, and if word got around that their employees were hurting people-- even if warranted-- it was bad for business. Who wants to hire a detective agency who might turn around and hurt you? Or someone else? The was really the best way to do damage control without bringing in press-- since,  _technically_ , they all worked under the table anyway. 

Amid having Pip locate the errant hoodlums-- there was a  _list_ , for crying out loud-- Shatterstar was subject to a two-way debate on picking his battles (literally). It was like watching a particularly fast-paced tennis match; Rahne had her points on Shatterstar using his strength and training on bystanders, and Shatterstar held firm to his belief that a fight should not be started unless it’s intended to be finished. 

“I didn’t even use my blades; I was  _considerate_ ,” he insisted, arms wide open and his eyebrows arched in a way that clearly communicated how unbelievable everyone was being. 

The whole thing ended in a stalemate, but after much cajoling (and possibly bribing to watch Sunset Blvd. with Shatterstar), the tall warrior found himself flanked by his teammates, outside of a suburban home that looked like every other suburban home along the street. The effect if the cookie-cutter houses lead to Shatterstar wondering aloud if anyone got lost along the similar streets and into the wrong house. Rictor snickered, and dared Shatterstar to ask that very question if they were allowed inside. 

“But don’t you think it’s strange? I would not have been able to find my way around easily if we had lived in a place like this with X-Force.”

“Corazon, you would have been able to find your room just fine; it would have been the only one with a framed poster of Wolverine on the wall.”

In turn, ‘Star punched Rictor’s shoulder lightly, giving him that especially soft smile he seemed to reserve just for Julio.

“...It was a thoughtful gift from Sam.”

Oh, that sinking feeling in Rahne’s stomach had just gotten worse. This might have been a bad idea, and she tried to grapple with the list of reasons she thought this was a good idea before.

The doorbell rang through the house, and anyone else would be nervous and picking at their clothes, but Shatterstar stood there like a tree stump. He might as well have been going over to see Hank McCoy or Jubilee, instead of apologizing to the a stranger for beating the stuffing out of him. 

“Aw, hell,” Rictor swore under his breath, and Rahne understood why (even if she did jab him in the ribs for swearing). Of  _course_ the person to answer the blasted doorbell was a woman who looked to be in her late sixties. Down to the glasses and permed grey hair to her blue cardigan, she all but exuded a home-baked cookies and cold milk type of an aura. 

“Yes?” Predictably, her eyes widened at the six-foot plus ginger with a facial tattoo. “Oh, dear.” 

“I’m sorry to disturb ye,” Rahne said, stepping forward. “M’colleagues and I were wondering if Chad was home? We had something we’d like t’say t’him.” She tried to sound more confident, rather than like a five year old being told she had to say sorry for taking a toy. 

“Of course, of course, come in.” The elderly woman bustled them inside, issuing out a call. “Chad, dear, those people who beat you up are here. Come out from the kitchen.” And, as though she catered to three mutants with hanging-jaws and looks of identical disbelief on their faces every day, she smiled, patted Shatterstar’s bicep. 

“Ma’am, we--” 

“Oh, please, call me Mabel. Now, I might be old, dear boy, but I’m hardly stupid. I always told Chad one day his mouth would write a check his behind couldn’t cash. Now, you three make yourselves comfortable, and I’ll put on tea.” She shuffled off, pausing only to tweak Chad’s ear hard as he mumbled that it was ‘only the big guy who beat him up, not a  _girl_ ’. 

“That’s what I tell you, Chad, you say such awful things and think there’s no consequence,” Mabel continued, carrying a tray with blue and white china on top of it, cookies and tea arranged artfully. She spoke as though carrying on a continued conversation, though the three X-Factor members and Chad, who was rubbing his sore ear, had been sitting in an uncomfortable silence. 

“I should not have used such forceful tactics on you,” Shatterstar rumbled, making eye contact with Chad. “I was wrong to take my anger out on you and your friends. I apologize, Chad McDudeBro.” 

_Silence._

“What the fuck!?--  _Ow_ , Nana, stop hitting me!” Chad exploded while Rictor seemed to have lost all powers of coherent speech due to laughing harder than Rahne had ever seen him laugh before. Even she was trying to fight a rising urge to giggle. 

“What? Is that not your name?” Shatterstar asked imploringly, looking from Rictor to the now-red faced and newly dubbed  _Chad McDudeBro_. “That is what Rictor referred to him as, I thought McDudeBro was his surname. My apology is a sincere one-- I understand I--”

  
“Dios mio, 'Star, dejas de hablar-- stop  _talking_ ,” Rictor pleaded, wiping away tears of laughter, not even caring that Chad’s glare was not directed at him. There was no way to save face at this point, and even Mabel seemed to think so, passing out cups of tea and cookies to everyone. She chuckled through it all, fondly patting her grandson’s shoulder. 

“Oh, I can’t wait to tell my crafts club about this-- Hillary will think it’s the best thing since The Nightly Show,” she gushed, sipping at her tea and changing the subject to what she was currently working on in terms of knitting. Surprisingly no one (except maybe Rahne and McDudeBro), Shatterstar attached to the idea of crocheting quickly, fascinated by the woven demonstration given to him. 

  
In the end, Mabel saw them off while Chad slunked his way back inside (the apology was not accept after all that). “You come back any time, Shatterstar, I’ll teach you how to crochet any time you like, dear.” 

“Yes, Miss Mabel, I shall do so on my next available weekend. Julio needs a new scarf, and he looks so nice in green. I’ll bring some with me when I--” 

Shaking her head again, Rahne met Rictor’s gaze, and took out the list of names from the bar. Lord in Heaven, there were a lot of them. 

“I don’t suppose the rest of these will go quite like that...” she trailed off, biting the rest of the words with a sigh. 

“I dunno, Rahney, but-- you really want to push that envelope?” 

“...No. No, I don’t.” 

They were back home before supper-- minus a quick stop at a craft store for skeins of wool and crocheting needles. 


End file.
